


Doors

by nerigby96



Category: Martin and Lewis
Genre: Childishness, Fluff and Angst, Forehead Kisses, Friendship/Love, Gentle Kissing, Hotels, Intimacy, Love, M/M, Partnership, Pining, Romantic Friendship, Touching, Understanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24343159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerigby96/pseuds/nerigby96
Summary: Their rooms are next to each other. Separate external doors, of course, but to Jerry’s delight there’s a pair of internal doors, too.
Relationships: Jerry Lewis/Dean Martin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	Doors

Their rooms are next to each other. Separate external doors, of course, but to Jerry’s delight there’s a pair of internal doors, too.

“I’m keepin' mine closed, pally,” Dean says, pre-emptive.

Jerry pouts. “What if I want you in the night?”

“Want me for what?”

Jerry waggles his eyebrows.

“Why, Mr Looseleaf, I’m not that kind of girl,” Dean says, and shoves him away before he can get the _That’s not what I heard_ out of his mouth.

Their first night of shows goes well, as usual, and they come back to the room after two o’clock in the morning. _Rooms_ , Jerry corrects himself as they stumble, giggling, hushing each other ineffectually, through his door. Jerry isn’t sure what’s funny anymore; it started because Dean had tripped coming up the stairs, almost falling face-first into the top riser, and Jerry had cried out, genuinely afraid for him, and caught him just in time, or so he thought, as they both went crashing down. The giggles started from Dean, and Jerry shoved him, chastised him, told him not to let all the money he spent on that schnozz go to waste, all the while fighting with the corners of his mouth. Dean called him a name, and Jerry pitched a mock swoon, scandalised, flouncing through the door and into the hall. They teased each other, poked and prodded and provoked, all the way to Jerry’s door, and Dean had got his hands in Jerry’s jacket and tickled viciously his waist so that he yelped, then flushed red, eyes bugging. They stared at each other in silence, suddenly remembering that this was a hotel, and it was the middle of the night, and people were sleeping. Then they broke into a frantic run and spent a good thirty seconds whisper-yelling at each other as Jerry tried to get the key into the lock.

Now they’re in his room, panting, laughter tapering, and Jerry falls into Dean’s arms and waits for everything to be perfect, which it always is when Dean holds him. It could be ten seconds or an hour, or maybe it’s just one round minute, but then Dean’s letting him go, because it’s late, Dad says, and they oughta get some sleep. Jerry nods. He takes off his shoes, his coat, and then remembers about the doors as Dean moves away from him.

“Oh, but I thought…” He trails off, feeling silly and young. Dean looks at him, and Jerry flushes, glad it’s so dark in here.

“Jerry.” His voice is reasonable, adult. “We got two nice rooms here, with two nice beds. We oughta use ’em, all right?”

He’s right. Of course he’s right. So Jerry nods again and says _Yes_ very soft and watches Dean begin to turn away. Something in his chest pulls tight.

“Nightmares!” he blurts.

Dean crosses his arms, an indulgent smile on his lips.

“What if I have a nightmare?” Victorious, surely, he gazes at his friend.

Dean’s nodding, considering. “I’ll hear you,” he says. “You’ll be all right, but if you need me, I’ll come. Okay?”

“Mm.” Jerry moves from foot to foot. He wishes he weren’t so needy. Why is that? Why can’t he just let his friend sleep in the next room? The heads of the beds are pressed against opposite sides of the wall – he’d be less than a foot away from him! Less than a foot… but impossible to see, impossible to touch or hold. Too far away, then, and with the doors between them—

It’s too much.

“Can we keep the doors open?” Hating himself for even suggesting it, a part of his brain crying that he’ll ruin it, he’ll ruin everything, being such a baby; and that same part, quieter, colder, saying he deserves it, deserves to have it ruined, so keep talking, keep going and make him leave and hate you and never want you again.

But instead of leaving him or hating him, Dean considers his suggestion.

They figure it this way: Dean’s door will stay closed, while Jerry’s will be open, so if he needs him ( _When don’t I?_ Jerry wants to say but bites his tongue), it’s Dean who can make their two rooms into one.

Jerry can’t think of a reason to refuse the compromise (and he desperately tries to think of a reason to refuse the compromise), so he nods and smiles and watches Dean go, almost unaware of his own feet moving to follow him.

Dean is aware. He pauses just inside his room; Jerry thinks he sees his shoulders sag. He definitely hears a sigh, and then Dean looks at him.

“I know,” he says, softly. “All right, Jer? I know.”

And Jerry wants to cry. His whole body shivers, and Dean’s handsome face blurs, swims. Jerry blinks hard and clears it, then loses him again. Loses him. So to find him again, Jerry steps closer, nearly blind, and stands with his feet on the threshold; his toes brush Dean’s and he stares at the broad, blurry chest before him.

“Jerry.”

Nothing. His mouth can’t be trusted now; for once he thinks the Idiot will behave himself, but the Idiot isn’t the problem. He never was.

“Go on, Jer.”

He can’t. He’s stuck here. Trying not to cry. But then:

“Gotta move, baby, wouldn’t wanna squash your toes.”

Jerry laughs, somehow.

“There’s my boy,” Dean says, and briefly rests his paw on Jerry’s crown. The novelty of this, that it covers him completely, has not worn off after five years. Then the gentle pressure is gone, and Dean turns to his room.

“Ain’t ya gonna kiss me goodnight?” He puts as much of the nine-year-old into it as possible, but the look on Dean’s face when he turns back tells him he hasn’t quite pulled it off.

Dean tilts his head, a strange sad little smile on his lips, and goes to him, holds gently the nape of his neck. He pulls him forward, just a step, to rest his mouth on Jerry’s brow. They stay that way awhile. Then Dean leans back and studies him. “All right?” he asks softly.

Jerry nods and feels his feet stutter backward on the carpet, clearing the doorframe: still trembling, still blinking rapidly to pull his partner into focus, watching as Dean takes hold of the door and starts to close it.

“I am, you know.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“Yours.”

He hears the click as Dean swallows. The little exhale, sharp and short. A soft sound, tongue wetting suddenly dry lips. _Is this it?_ Jerry thinks. _Is this where I ruin it?_

Dean whispers, “Night, Jer,” and doesn’t look at him as he closes the door.

Jerry doesn’t know how long he stands there, staring, adjusting. It’s a horrible thing, he thinks, a door with no handle. He looks away from it, focuses instead on his jacket, folding it over the chair in the corner. Then his bowtie, one swift tug and it’s away; his shirt, untucked, and then all the buttons, nice and easy; and the pants after, that little button on the side, the tongue of fabric slipped through a loop, tiny hooks, a zipper and away with the rest of it; and Jerry puts it all nice together on a hanger, fixes it in place over the bathroom door, so it hangs ready for tomorrow.

In his boxer shorts and undershirt, he slips past the tux into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He keeps the light off so the mirror can’t see him.

Then he’s in bed. He tries the left side, then the right. Then he puts the pillows exactly in the middle and tries that. With a sigh, he rolls on to his side and hugs a pillow to his chest and then, after the briefest hesitation, he arranges all the pillows under the covers with him, so there’s something to hold. Something almost like a body, almost like his partner, but not quite. Not warm like him. And not with an arm to slip around his skinny waist.

He pushes his face into the mattress.

Then there’s a noise above his head. A small, scratching sound. And then a tapping. _Tap-tap-tap._

Jerry blinks into the dark. His eyes aren’t working quite right, not after that pressure. He rubs them, clambers to his knees, and waits for the noise again.

It comes: a tap on the wall.

_Paul._

Jerry grins and taps back, just once, just to see. And right away his pal, his partner, his best friend in all the world, drums his fingertips on the wall.

In answer – because it has to be a question – Jerry knocks lightly. _Yes_ , he says.

A shushing sound, flats of his knuckles rubbed against the wall. _Good._

Jerry beams and wants to jump up and down on the bed. Instead, he rests his forehead against the wall, cheeks aching, and says with the palm of his hand, _I miss you._

Nails scratching, scritching; Jerry feels their phantom comfort on the back of his neck. _I know._ A pause. Then two quick taps: _Me too._

They’re quiet then. Jerry still has his palm on the wall and knows – he _knows_ , somehow, the way he always knows – that Dean is mirroring him.

Very soft, so soft he almost misses it, another tap. Then silence again. Jerry figures it out at once and taps back, still soft but less so. And then Dean taps, louder. And then Jerry taps, louder still. They tap the wall, taking turns, light and then firm and then loud, playing, daring each other, seeing how far they’ll go, who’ll break first, who’ll win, building, building, building, until they’re slapping palms flat against the wall with gay abandon, drumming drumming drumming, until someone beyond Jerry’s room – and maybe beyond Dean’s too on the other side – thumps the wall and yells, muffled. Jerry giggles and covers his mouth. How many times have they pissed off the neighbours this way?

The aftermath of their game hangs in the air for what seems like an eternity; Jerry imagines he can see ripples in the walls, the ceiling, the floor, growing, as if they dropped a rock into a lake and want to see how long it takes the water to recover. It does recover, in the end, and then it’s quiet again. Jerry’s heart still hammers, his cheeks still ache, and he has to clutch his face and writhe with glee before he can get himself under anything resembling control.

He’s thinking what to tap next when a low, soft, horizontal scratching emanates through the wall.

_Scratch. Scratch. Scratch._

Jerry’s mouth goes dry. He waits and waits but nothing more comes. It’s stupid, really, stupid to feel your heart stop over three scrapes of your friend’s nail on a wall. But Jerry’s brain is whirring, clicking, almost overheating, because there’s no joke in that pattern, no attempt to make him laugh or piss him off, to provoke him to tap or thump or pound in response. Those scratches were short and quiet and, Jerry is certain, _hesitant_. He’s on his knees now, can’t remember when that happened, and rests his forehead on the wall, thinking, making sure.

If a scratch is a word.

Three words.

Jerry wants to cry. He feels like a kid, stupid and young, but he raises his hand, even though a horrible cruel part of him whispers that he’s got it all wrong, and sets nail to wall.

 _Scratch. Scratch. Scratch._ A pause, a comma. _Scratch._

Everything is silent.

And he wonders if Dean fell asleep. He wonders if Dean didn’t like what he just did. He wonders if he missed the message, and now Dean’s confused, can’t figure out what to tap or scrape next. Jerry rests his palm on the wall, next to his hot face, and mouths a desperate plea into the darkness.

And through the wall comes the creaking of bedsprings, the whisper of bare feet on carpet, and Jerry practically collapses on to the bed, collecting himself enough to sit with his legs tucked beside him like a mermaid, as Dean’s door opens, and he steps into the room, looking at Jerry with a lovely, curious kindness. 

And God he’s never felt so warm in all his life.

“You comin’?”

Jerry swallows. He wants to say _Yes_ , but he knows he won't make it, can't count on his legs now. _He'd carry me_ , he thinks and shakes his head. He asks, voice catching: “Will you stay with me?”

Dean’s easy smile makes Jerry’s pulse thrum. “Sure, kid.”

He comes to him. He’s in his underwear and nothing else. Jerry feels overdressed suddenly, crazily, but as always he’s glad his own skinny chest isn’t there to be compared to Dean’s unfairly perfect one.

Dean sits. “All right, Jer?”

Jerry nods. He doesn’t trust his mouth right now, and he’s acutely aware of Dean’s bare chest, the solid pressure of his arm, and how his left hand’s come to rest on his thigh.

Jerry wants to touch him – and wouldn’t you know? He can. He can reach out and rest a hand high up on Dean’s chest. He can stroke lightly up and over Dean’s collar bone, his broad shoulder, down his toned arm, all the way to his huge hand, so big it can swallow his whole. He can hold that hand, clasp it gently like a prayer, and bring it to his lips, brush his mouth against uneven knuckles, against scars and bumps. He can nip at calloused fingertips, can feel more than hear Dean’s soft chuckle.

“Lie down now,” Dean whispers.

So Jerry lies down. Dean gets the sheet for him, covers him with it, and slips in beside him. He fixes the pillows, saying nothing about the shape his little partner created, and puts his head down a little higher up than Jerry’s. And Jerry gazes at him, thinking what to say. How to get it right.

He wets his lips. “Paul—”

“Close your eyes, Jer.” So soft and sweet, and with his fingertips achingly gentle on Jerry’s cheek, he is impossible to defy. Not that Jerry would ever dream of it; even such a simple instruction as this is enough to set him tingling. _He could tell me to do anything_ , he thinks. _He could tell me to jump off a cliff and I’d probably ask if he had his heart set on a particular one._

He waits for Dean’s hand to resume normal service at the nape of his neck, but his fingertips move down, forward, come to rest on Jerry’s chin. He feels his head being tipped back, ever so slightly, and then warm breath misting his top lip. There is an agonising pause – two seconds at most, but enough to force a whimper up Jerry’s throat; he bites it back, refuses to break the electric pitch-black silence.

Dean’s mouth is softly devastating. That brief press of his lips ignites wildfires, shifts continents, starts and ends wars, and at the same time, it is almost impossibly gentle, and Jerry thinks he might weep for the sheer wonder of it, of Dean’s mouth on his, of his lips, how they’re a little dry, a little firm, how his breath tastes of mint, and how he has angled his head just a little, and how as he pulls back their lips stay joined for a second, peeling silently away like two hands reluctant to let each other go.

Breathless, eyes still closed, Jerry asks, “Why’d you stop?”

He hears the uncomfortable noise in the back of Dean’s throat. “I… I didn’t mean to do that.”

“It’s all right,” Jerry says, thinking _Do it again_ , thinking _Never stop doing it_ , thinking _Let me do it back now._ “I wanted you to.”

Dean’s hand is on him again, back where it should be on the nape of his neck. “Sorry, Jer,” he says. He sounds sorry for so many things, when he’s done nothing wrong.

Under the covers, Jerry reaches for him. He finds his waist, strokes there, slips fingers to the small of his back and slides closer to him, lies flush against him, nuzzles him; Dean’s pulse flutters against his nose. “I liked it,” he says. “Don’t be sad.”

A large hand cradles the back of his head. Jerry doesn’t know where Dean’s other hand is, but it’s okay. One is enough just now; he doesn’t know what he’d do if the other touched him, too. “I liked it,” he whispers again, and then, as though Dean doesn’t already know: “I like _you_ , too.”

Dean laughs silently; Jerry loves the rapid little jumps of his chest. He loves his heart beating in tandem with his own. He loves his smell, rich and warm. He loves him so much he almost can’t believe he has him, that he isn’t a dream, someone he invented to comfort him when he’s lonely. Dean’s chest rises and falls, slower now, and then he’s snoring gently, sweetly, breaths brushing Jerry’s hair. He shivers, snuggles closer, drifts away.

Jerry thinks he’ll wake first, push himself back quietly to sit against the headboard and look down at his partner’s cute face in repose. He thinks he’ll have to sit on his hands to stop himself from touching him, mussing his curls, stroking the planes of his face, and waking him. He thinks he’ll touch his own lips with hesitant fingers, see if he can still feel the ghost of Dean’s lingering there. And if he can’t? Well, he thinks he might have to kiss him, then, gently rouse him, ask with gentle fingers on tan skin if he can have one small part of him in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Not the fluffiest thing I've ever written, but certainly fluffier than my usual fare. This takes place in 1947 (hence the 'after five years' bit, if we accept the boys met in 1942, which we should).
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it <3


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